Sing It To Me
by CoutureWriting
Summary: Post-Reichenbach Fall. Sherlock is in Australia when Nina forces her way into his life with an interesting proposition. She's bored, and he has a job to do. YAY! Please read if you like my other work. xxx


_Okay, indulge me, please._

_I watched The Reichenbach Fall a week ago, and I've been consumed with this scenario where a young girl who became interested in Sherlock when he became an Internet phenomenon has been tracking him since he faked his death, and has pinpointed each of the assassins contracted to kill Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson and John._

_Still not sure whether I like it. I like the chemistry between her and Sherlock, though, and the fact that she's a force to be reckoned with._

_Decided to set this chapter in Sydney, because I'm Australian and I thought I might write about what I know, self-indulgently._

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><p>Sherlock knew he was being followed.<p>

By exactly whom, he wasn't sure. She was female, with a slender build, dark hair and a cautious demeanor. It was only very occasionally that he spotted her – she kept herself well-hidden, and he had the feeling that she purposefully allowed herself to be seen, as more of a message than an accident … a message that she was still on his trail.

It had been six months since the fall, and as far as he knew, she'd kept herself close to him for four. He had no idea how this woman had tracked him to Australia. But here they both were, in Sydney, half way around the world from home.

In the grandiose bar situated in the Rocks, only a few hundred metres away from the dank apartment he'd managed to coerce a shady landlord into letting him lease, he sat. He'd ordered a drink – scotch – left untouched by his left arm. He'd been sitting there for two and a half hours. Twice he'd had to rebuff the advances of women. One, a mature lady almost twice his age and the second who looked barely old enough to be allowed entry to the bar.

As often, Sherlock's thoughts were occupied with home, and more specifically, his best friend and flat-mate, John Watson.

As if on demand, Sherlock's phone beeped loudly. He extracted it from his pocket and glanced down at the message.

MRS HUDSON MOVING YOUR THINGS OUT OF YOUR ROOM, FINALLY. JOHN.

These messages had, at first, alarmed Sherlock, because he had jumped to the conclusion that John knew he was still alive, thereby placing him in immediate danger. But then, as the messages became more and more mournful and less frequent, he knew that John was unaware of his continued being.

Sherlock deleted the message, as he did the others, and returned his phone to his pocket. He glanced at the scotch, and on impulse, raised it to his lips.

"I thought you didn't drink."

The glass paused at his mouth, and after a moment's hesitation, he placed it back upon the table and turned to the woman who had arrived at the table.

She was tall, almost as tall as he, with a head of dark hair that had been let loose, thick, dark eyebrows and full, red lips. A heavy brow. High cheekbones. A scar on the right side of her high forehead. Perfect teeth. She was left-handed.

"Finally decided to introduce yourself, I see," he said, in response to her accusatory observation.

"It's hardly an introduction, Mr. Holmes," she said, pulling her coat tighter around her shoulders and slipping into the seat opposite him, earning the glares of several unattached women. "At least, not for me," she added, with a sly smile.

"As I have noticed."

"Upon my intention," she said.

"Is that so?"

"I followed you for a good two months before first revealing myself," she said, taking the scotch from the table and gulping it down. Replacing the glass, she smiled.

So she had been following him since he'd left Britain.

"What sort of a game would it be if I wasn't included?" he asked, inclining his head toward her.

"Admittedly, a very boring one," she agreed. "But Mr. Holmes, this isn't a game, is it?"

"I was under the impression that that was the cause for your delay. You were enjoying yourself."

She smiled. "Did you deduce that?" she asked mockingly.

"You've read John's blog."

"Mr. Holmes, you underestimate yourself. You're _famous_. Or infamous, more fittingly," she said carefully. "I'm simply an interested party."

"A fan."

The woman grinned. "Oh, I wouldn't say that," she murmured. "You see, Mr. Holmes, it's rather more complicated than that. You need my help."

"Unknowingly, then," he replied. "I don't require any help, particularly from you."

She raised her eyebrows skeptically, before pulling a folder from her handbag and slapping it onto the table. She watched him carefully.

"What's that?" he demanded.

"Why don't you find out?"

"You could tell me," he said defiantly. "We'd save time."

"I'm not in a rush," she answered, leaning back against the chair and glancing meaningfully at the folder. She folded her arms across her chest.

Reluctantly, he took the folder and pulled from it a collection of documents. Pictures of three men he did not know, birth certificates, bank statements, maps.

"I don't know these people," he protested.

She nodded. "I know _that_. But you should. You see, I've rather done you a favour. You may be on holiday, but I've been tracking the movements of the three assassins who are contracted to kill your friends if you show your face again."

He glanced at the documents again, and then at her, disbelief clouding his face.

"_Why?_"

"Why does anyone do anything?" she asked dismissively. "I'm bored, Mr. Holmes. Nothing impresses me any more. Well, that is to say, except you. I've kept myself very well informed of your various adventures."

"A fan, then, like I said," Sherlock said.

She shrugged and then leant forward, her breath hot on his face. "I can be whatever you like."

He was stock-still as she broke into a grin.

"Oh my, what does it take to make you squirm, then?" she demanded.

"You're hardly original," he said quietly. "A woman making an impression by alluding to sex five minutes into the conversation … how _alarming_."

"I'm not trying to be alarming," she dismissed him. "I'm making you a proposition."

"You—"

"Think, Mr. Holmes, _think!_ I'm bored, and I'm here with the names and locations of three people that need to be taken care of. What could I possibly want?"

His gaze intensified as he studied her.

"As to what you want, I'm not sure yet. But what can I tell about you? You're university educated, but you haven't finished your degree – bored? Your accent tells me you're British, probably from Derbyshire, but you've been living here intermittently your whole life. You own a cat, white. You're a smoker, but only recently. You have expensive taste in clothes, at such a young age, that suggests family money … or a benefactor, which I doubt as you appear to be unattached. You … you're … _oh!_ Oh, yes! Yes! _You_ want to help _me_ track down the would-be killers."

"Right on all counts," she said, raising her hands in mock-surrender. "I salute you. Metaphorically."

"No."

The girl smiled. "That's not your final answer. Because, Mr. Holmes, if I leave, the information goes with me."

She gathered the file and pushed it beneath her thick coat.

He licked his lips and shook his head.

"Can't you occupy yourself without following me?" he asked.

"Ordinary people are boring and predictable," she said. "I'm hoping that you'll surprise me."

Sherlock stood abruptly, shrugging on his coat. He inclined his head to her as if in goodbye.

She watched him leave the bar, for the first time, panic rising in her chest. She pulled out the file and fumbled with it for a moment, before she tightened her coat around herself, and hurried outside to follow him.

It was late, and there were several drunks around them. One jeered at her and the other catcalled. She spotted Sherlock hurrying away.

"Mr. Holmes! Sherlock Holmes!" she cried, taking off after him, determination quickening her sprint.

He appeared to ignore her, but his pace slowed.

"Sherlock!"

All at once, he whirled around, and he was facing her. She collided with his chest and took two steps back. She couldn't read the look on his face as he advanced towards her. He grabbed her wrist roughly.

"You wouldn't," she murmured.

His face was inches from hers, but she couldn't help the surprise and the shock that coursed through her when he pressed his lips to hers.

All of a sudden, his hands were in her coat. She forgot about the file until he took a step back victoriously, clutching it, triumph evident all over his face.

She smiled immediately and raised her eyebrows.

He opened the folder, and his face dropped.

Reaching inside her coat pocket, she withdrew the documents, now folded neatly into quarters. She returned them and placed her hands on her hips in an accusatory fashion.

"You've underestimated me," she said simply.

He didn't say anything for a moment, and then nodded.

"Impressed?"

"Mildly."

She grinned again, and then stepped towards him. She lifted a hand and placed it on his cheek. Her touch was gentle.

"Don't try that again," she said, pulling her hand away, then with all the strength she could muster, she slapped him so hard he was caught off-balance.

He reached up to touch his cheek and he frowned at her in shock.

"What was that for?"

"Don't kiss me unless you want me to take you home," she said. "Particularly not to extract information from me. It doesn't work."

"Do I get a name?" he asked.

She grinned. "Of course. Which would you like? Poppy? Alexandra? Fiona, Daphne, Jane, Carmen, Lola, Isabella? Kate, Sarah, Georgia, Jill, Ophelia, Victoria?"

"Your name," he said impatiently.

"You should have said," she replied sympathetically. "Nina," she added, thrusting her hand out to him. He shook it suspiciously.

"Pleasure to meet you," he said.

"No it isn't," she said dismissively. "Honesty is the basis for respect."

"Who said that?"

"I'll tell you when I think of someone," she said with a grin.

He stared at her for several moments, suspicious but also intrigued.

"I've seen where you live," she said finally, "and I don't particularly want to contract some horrible disease from your apartment. No offence."

"None taken," he said sarcastically.

"So, my place it is," Nina said decisively. "You coming?"

"My things …"

"Everything of importance is on your person," she said, frowning. "You forget that I've been watching you."

He raised his eyebrows but said nothing. He shrugged.

"_So_, are you coming?" she demanded.

"Do I have a choice?"

She took a vicious step towards him, but smiled sweetly. "You always have a choice."

"I'm coming."

* * *

><p>"Tea, coffee or wine?" she called from the kitchen. "Or something stronger?"<p>

He glanced up from where he sat upon her lounge. She had her back pressed into the bench and was watching him intently, a cigarette in her mouth.

"Coffee, black, two sugars," he said.

She began to bustle about the kitchen as he sat back and surveyed her apartment. He must have been right about the family money. It was clearly owned, not leased. It was also extremely messy. Clothes and papers were littered around the living room, but there were also invaluable artworks and antiques everywhere.

"Here," she said, handing him a cup.

"Been living here long?" he asked.

She shrugged. "It belongs to my parents. They live in Chelsea, they hardly ever use it, and they let me live here."

Sherlock took a sip of the scalding coffee and nodded.

"Sorry about the mess," she said carelessly. "I don't really worry about things that aren't important. But I'm organised where it matters. Like you."

"What do you do?" he asked finally.

She grinned. "I thought you might be able to deduce that, my dear."

"I've tried," he admitted.

"Freelance," she said dismissively. "I do whatever takes my fancy. At the moment, it's you."

"Okay, but why?"

"You're in trouble, I'm a Good Samaritan. And I liked your hat."

He smiled despite himself.

"Whatever," she continued, dropping onto the lounge beside him. She reached for her MacBook and pulled it onto her lap. "I've managed to track the first to here," she stabbed the screen with a slender finger. "The one contracted to kill Doctor John Watson. He's in Dorset."

"How original," said Sherlock, rolling his eyes.

"With family," she added.

"Touching."

"Shall I book the flights?" she asked. A new screen popped up with both of their details entered. Her finger hovered over the send button.

Sherlock got to his feet and inclined his head as a yes. Nina hit the key and snapped the screen shut.

"Nine o'clock, tomorrow," she said. "Business class."

"Naturally."

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><p><em>Well there you have it, chaptre une!<em>

_Hope you enjoyed it. Please review, even if it's criticism. Love is what keeps me writing._

_Nina is a very complex character, if you haven't got that already. She's very multi-faceted, and you've only seen one side of her so far. Obviously, she's not going to let herself be bullied by Sherlock, so she's no Molly Hooper!_

_I've imagined Nina as this very classic-looking girl. My inspirations for her (looks-wise) are Gemma Arterton, Camilla Belle (actually my main inspiration) and Michelle Dockery. But personality-wise, she's not really like anyone I've imagined before. She's kind of hazardous in the fact that she does dangerous things when she gets bored. In a way, she's totally fearless, but actually very vulnerable (which you will get in later chapters) but she definitely does not need Sherlock to come to her rescue. She's a personality in her own right, and doesn't have to rely on him as the hero, but she's not the heroine either … she's sort of an anti-heroine._

_Apart from that, there's not really much else. I can promise that I will re-introduce John, so there will be a reconciliation scene between him and Sherlock (if you're good to me I may even involve a fist-fight)._

_That's all from me for the moment._

_Love you all. Bless for reading. x_


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